Down in the dear West Country, there's a garden where I know
The Spring is rioting this hour, though I am far away --
Where all the glad flower-faces are old loves of long ago,
And each in its accustomed place is blossoming to-day.
The lilac drops her amethysts upon the mossy wall,
While in her boughs a cheerful thrush is calling to his mate.
Dear breath of mignonette and stocks! I love you, know you all.
And, oh, the fragrant spices from the lad's love by the gate!
Kind wind from the West Country, wet wind, but scented so,
That straight from my dear garden you seem but lately come,
Just tell me of the yellow broom, the guelder rose's snow,
And of the tangled clematis where myriad insects hum.
Oh, is there any heartsease left, or any rosemary?
And in their own green solitudes, say, do the lilies wait?
I knew it! Gentle wind, but once -- speak low and tenderly --
How fares it -- tell me truly -- with the lad's love by the gate?